Love, Lies and Logic
by Roarax
Summary: Temperance can't rationalize the difference between emotion and pleasure. Rated "M" for future chapters - Ange/Temp : femslash
1. Limitations

**Disclaimer:** I do not own the characters. No infringement intended.

**Spoilers/Warnings:** Everything is fair game.

"When's the last time we did something like this?" Angela enquired with a sigh. "You know? Just me, you, and a bottle of champagne."

Temperance laughed; that throaty, melodious sound that was always enough to lift anyone's melancholic spirit. "Having known you for years, now, I'm going to take the acknowledgement of an alcoholic beverage as one of the reasons you enjoy tonight so much to be a joke. But you're right," a genuine smile found its way upon the well-known author's lips as she raised her glass to the woman seated across from her, "I rather enjoy the company."

"Cheers to that." The artist laughed and held her glass up high before bringing it to her lips and taking a sip.

"Cheers." Temperance repeated softly, mimicking the raven-haired woman and taking a sip of the drink that was her own. "To new beginnings."

It was likely that Angela hadn't heard the scientist's last statement, because if she had, she'd have asked where it came from. And despite the fact that Brennan did intend on letting her best friend know where the idea had blossomed from, she thought to herself that it might be best if she handled this situation with discretion.

The night went on, another bottle of champagne was eventually opened, and the hum of female laughter rose high above any other background noises of police cars, honking horns, and displeased civilians. Angela was the one who'd taken the higher intake of alcohol; the forensic anthropologist not being fond of the feeling of loss of control. After all, her name _was_ Temperance: self-restraint incarnate. It was moments after she began to notice Angela's irrational laughter and misplaced goofiness that Brennan placed the tips of her fingers over the diameter of the raven-haired woman's glass.

"I think you've had enough for tonight, Ange."

"But we're having a party!" The grown woman whined. "Party equals fun, and fun entails drinking."

Temperance beamed a soft smile and rolled her eyes, removing the glass from Angela's grasp. She said, "When one consumes too much alcoholic quantities, they either do things they afterwards regret—which does _not_ classify as 'fun'—or they black-out and forget the very characterization of their 'fun' the next morning. Sometimes both. In addition, the definition of a party is a social gathering utilized for social interaction and entertainment, generally attended by a greater number than what we—"

"Sweetie." Angela interrupted her, the silliness of an alcoholic-induced haze still very apparent on her Asian features. "Can we not do this tonight? I didn't catch a word of what you said."

"Fair enough." Temperance had long-ago become accustomed to her best friend stopping her mid-rant to remind her that not everyone had had as intense an education as she'd went through. "Though the fact that you didn't catch _a word_ of what I said merely proves my point in terms of—"

"_Sweetie._" The artist was looking at her with bulging eyes and a childish smile. She pointed to herself, giggling, and proclaimed with pride: "Drunk. _I_ _no_ _comprenden_."

"Was that Spanish?" Brennan's eyes furrowed as she eyed her best friend with a quizzical allure.

Angela shrugged, burped a rather un-ladylike belch, giggled, and fell to the ground head first with a _thud_. Her chair tipped with her as she fell, toppling over her and eliciting a grunted curse from the usually restrained woman when one of the legs hit her in the calf.

Temperance was immediately on top of her, gently lifting the back of her head and checking for any signs of severe physical damage while the artist continued to giggle and teasingly slap the scientist's hands away. The woman who's hands were delicately prodding around the back of the temporarily-inebriated lunatic's skull tried to suppress a smile at the sight of her friend's loss of control.

She sat cross-legged on the floor next to a hysterical Angela and concocted an improvised summary for the situation—even though she was well aware of the fact that the woman lying next to her didn't give a rat's ass about her condition. "Everyone knows I'm not good with flesh," the anthropologist began. "Not as much as with bones, anyway. But from what I can feel, you won't have any permanent issues with your physical well-being in the future. Had your skull been even the slightest bit shifted, or dented due to the fall, the pressure within might have been enough to cause significant damage to your cerebral health. As well as the fact that you're not in control of the every physiological capacity your body normally possesses merely accentuates just how dangerous this could have been. I strongly suggest you lie down on a flat surface to prevent further risk of falling."

By now, the generally sophisticated and reserved woman was mumbling the broken tune of _Oh Christmas Tree_ and rocking her head to the inconsistent beat.

"Ange…" Temperance sighed and brought her best friend's head to gently rest against her thigh, shifting positions to accommodate the weight of a new person. The voice she had utilized to breathe the artist's name had been exhaled with a detectable note of disappointment, and even in her inebriated state, Angela was capable of noticing it. She tilted her head upwards to give Temperance puppy-dog eyes.

"I'm sorry, Bren. I didn't want tonight to be about—" she paused to hiccup, "—this. And me being stupid."

"I forgive you." The scientist found herself stroking the temporarily incapacitated woman's hair, finding the action soothing for both herself as well as Angela. "But that doesn't mean I'm going to let you anywhere near an alcoholic substance for the rest of the night. You'll end up hurting yourself worse than you already have."

"Mmm."

Angela wasn't listening anymore. No, she'd effectively been shushed by the skilful way Temperance's fingertips moved upon her scalp and was content with basking in the sensations the anthropologist could offer. Soon enough, the artist was sound asleep; a heavy and deep breathing replacing the shallow inhales and hiccups that filled her lungs with oxygen while awake. Her lips, Temperance noticed, had parted slightly in her slumber to permit an easier flow of air to travel through her system. Though there was a perfectly logical reason for the unconscious opening of the raven-haired woman's oral cavity, the action roused something within the scientist that she'd once vowed to keep leashed. Beyond all rational inhibition, Temperance deemed it appropriate to rise her free hand and run the tips of her fingers ever-so-gently upon the plump, soft tissue of Angela's parted lips.

The sleeping beauty responded with a breathy exhale, followed by a grunt; she turned over in her sleep, nose now pointing directly towards the author's inner thighs. To top everything off, Angela slipped one of her skilled hands underneath Brennan's thigh—curling it around the surprised woman's leg until she could rest her cheek upon the back of her own hand like a pillow.

"Angela?" Temperance shook her best friend softly, not wanting to startle the poor woman and yet considering it necessary to inform her of her position. Angela's bicep squeezed around the uncomfortable scientist's thigh, face scrunching up in displeasure as Brennan shook her once more. "Angela, wake up please."

"Five more minutes." The adult whined like a child, curling her arm tighter around Temperance and exhaling in a huff of discontent.

"Five more minutes…" The anthropologist repeated the words aloud in a whisper, taking their meaning literally. She brought the fallen chair to stand up behind her, resting her back against it and sighing, "I can handle five minutes."

One minute and twenty-six seconds passed, and Angela's position was truly beginning to rouse something within the scientist. With every deep inhale in her sleep, the artist's chest rubbed the length of Temperance's thigh with a near-unnoticeable graze. But Temperance noticed. She could feel the every ripple of their clothing brushing up against the other's—her jeans, and her best friend's blouse. With fists curled at her sides, the rational woman resumed her internal stopwatch. _Twenty-seven, twenty-eight, twenty-nine…_

Two minutes and thirteen seconds. Not even a minute had gone by and the scientist had found a new obstacle to her peace of mind: Angela was moaning in her sleep. Sleeping Beauty replaced approximately one out of three exhales with a breathy moan; nothing sexual, and yet enough to have Brennan question the whereabouts of her best friend's thoughts. Logic told her that it could be anything—that it was possible that the sounds weren't even remotely related to the dream—and yet that small voice in the back of her mind was whispering unfounded quirks. _She fell asleep on you. She unconsciously curled her hand around you while sleeping. And now, in the comfort of your presence, she every so often emits a moan…_

Three minutes and forty-nine seconds—impatience begun to gnaw at the ligaments beneath the usually calm and collected scientist's flesh. Angela's arm had wrapped itself tighter around Temperance's thigh, the sleeping woman unconsciously turning her unblemished visage so that her lips were pressed against the material of jeans. Through the thick fabric of her garments, Brennan was actually able to feel the warm breath being exhaled from the artist's parted lips. The whiffs of hot air seeped through the tissue and seemed to seep through Temperance's flesh; entering veins and using them as roadways to travel to every possible expanse of the anthropologist's body. Rogue emotions had always been easy for the rational woman to locate, trap, and make vanish—but in this instance, with Angela breathing as if directly upon sensitive living tissue, the uncanny notions and wicked racing thoughts were too many to catch and cease. _She wants you. Take her._

Four minutes and thirty seconds hit, and Temperance couldn't keep her hands curled into fists at her side any longer. Her right hand twitched, and she lifted it to trail her fingers delicately across Angela's exposed cheek. The sleeping woman breathed out in a displeased huff, tensing up before releasing each and every of her muscles at once to fall limp in Temperance's lap. Disgusted with herself, the scientist recoiled as if Angela's flesh burned through the material of jeans, sizzling living tissue. It was inhuman of her to take advantage of her best friend during slumber; irrational to believe that it would arise to anything in the future. What was the value of a secret fondling session if it could entail mistrust within their relationship and potentially destroy everything Temperance had strived to build ever since she laid eyes upon the glory that was Angela Montenegro. _Your presence is comforting to her. Soothe her further—she will do nothing but thank you. Make the first move and save her the temptation of having to do it herself._

Five minutes on the dot.

"Ange?" Temperance shuffled nervously beneath her sleeping friend. "Wake up."

The artist hiccupped and groaned, squeezing her eyes shut. "Five more minutes."

"It's _been_ five minutes." Brennan insisted, trying her hardest not to sound annoyed when all that she could feel were the rabid butterflies eating away her insides. "I'll drop you off at your house if you want to sleep, but you can't stay here. Not tonight."

Angela mumbled something that sounded vaguely like the words _five more minutes_ before she repositioned herself snugger into jeans, stroking Temperance's leg as if it were a puppy that needed to be soothed. The anthropologist groaned with what was a mixture of frustration and something else, thrusting her head back against the seat of the chair to make a thud resonate throughout the room. She didn't know what it was about the gorgeous Asian woman that attracted her with such strong magnitude, but the simple thought that there was someone out there who could send her to her knees with a simple touch was almost frightening.

Temperance had tried hard over these past few months to make certain the two were hardly ever left alone; partly because she had never wanted to give Angela the impression that friendship wasn't enough. If the scientist could know the pure-hearted Goddess only through friendly bonds, then that was already too much. _Mainly_, however, had Temperance strived to stay astray of the proximity of her best friend because of the fact that something within her whispered plausible notions that the raven-haired beauty was intentionally luring her closer. That she was purposely asserting the role of a temptress to entice Brennan's first move—whether it be because she'd wanted to be certain of the anthropologist's emotions, or that she was simply too timid to approach the situation first.

Should the former be the case, Temperance thought to herself, the temptress had effectively managed to tie each of her limbs to strings. A single tug from one of those strings and rationality became irrelevant—time ceased to move forward; ceased to exist. In a state of slumber, the puppeteer had managed to reduce Temperance's thoughts to slush. _Imagine what she can do when she coils the strings around her hands for better grip, smiles that innocent smile of hers before curling her fingers into fists and tugging on each and every one of the strings at once. You will crumble at her feet._

The anthropologist had honestly desired to share emotions with her best friend this night; her aim not necessarily to find an answer to any questions, but to remove the kilograms of weight crushing her sternum with their enormity. Angela had the right to know. Angela _needed_ to know. And perhaps—a fleeting thought taunted Temperance with its implausibility—it would be the exact words Angela would have wanted to hear. But either way, the raven-haired beauty was now fast asleep, and even if she were to be woken, chances were likely that the alcohol was coursing merrily through her veins—not the best state of being to intake serious conversation topics.

Brennan sighed, playing the mumbled words of _five more minutes_ through her mind over and over again as she rested her head against the seat of the chair. The intense sensations had dissipated over time, but that was only because the scientist had allowed despair and gloom to overcome racing anticipation within her thoughts; the negative emotions rapidly plaguing any hope that she once clung to like a raft.

Keeping her eyelids open rapidly became a burden, and Temperance felt the world around her vanish as she entered the land of slumber with one arm draped around her best friend's shoulders, and a growing heat pooling between her thighs…

**TBC**


	2. Lust

**Disclaimer:** I do not own the characters. No infringement intended.  
**Spoilers/Warnings:** Everything is fair game.  
**A/N:** I tried this chapter from a first person point of view. Good or bad idea?

* * *

_Do you ever get the distinct feeling that the world around you isn't the one you're familiar with? Has it ever occurred to you that this world of reality that everyone seems to latch themselves onto isn't as ideal as most would strive to have you believe? Dreams are the only state of mind that allow complete and utter control—an infinite wisdom in this world that was moulded from your very imagination. If something occurs in this reality, it's because you want it to; because you've made it so…_

The possible negative repercussions that would arise from my actions in any other circumstance elude my thoughts entirely as the palms of my hands greet soft, creamy flesh. An arousing feminine moan hums, and I can feel the vibration of her windpipe thrumming against the hand that I have curled around her throat. Imagination sends my thoughts flying high; this is the only place I can touch her and elicit a positive response.

A feeling of pathetic weakness settles itself in my stomach the moment my mind grasps the extent to which I desire to ravage the beautiful woman lying beneath my quivering figure. The only times I dare let my hands and thoughts wander is within the safe confines of my imagination, and it disgusts me.

The fingers on my free hand trail their way up her arm, and in perfect synchronization with the direction of _my_ thoughts, her hand fists itself in the silky texture of my hair. My name tumbles from her lips, and I revel in the husky sound of her voice encompassing the single, three-syllabic word that I so desperately wanted to hear. My breath catches in my throat; thoughts momentarily paralyzed due to the eerie vividness of my surroundings. _So real,_ my mind taunts me, _and yet bound never to flourish._

"Don't stop," she whispers as I shy away from the comfort of her proximity. "Please."

My larynx constricts; I don't want to lose her, now. "I can't."

The hand that is fisted in my locks curls into a tighter ball, and I am forced to comply when she pulls my lips down to meet hers. My flushed skin heats up further as it grinds up against hers, the tips of hardened nipples rousing senses within me I had never thought to ignite again.

Rationality isn't important—neither of us wears the heavy burden of clothes in this twisted fantasy of mine, but the beginning of dreams are never clear. You're thrown into _medias in res_; ignorant of how things came to be, but expected to know what to make of the situation. She is in love with a man, makes her desires painfully obvious. Based upon this, how is it rational for me to be atop her in this instance; hands exploring unknown yet familiar territory as she mewls beneath me? It isn't.

But that isn't important, is it?

"Touch me." Her pleading whisper alone is enough to send me to the edges of this Earth and back, but I do not let it affect my resolve. What good is a few moments of sexual gratification if I'm already too familiar with the feeling of lucidity crashing down upon me? The higher I fly with her in this subconscious state, the harder and faster I will crash when I wake. It isn't fair, but it is so.

_Though the flight_—I think to myself, curling my hands into fists—_is worth the crash…_

My surroundings are a haze of lust and clouded vision as she pleads to me with her body that I take her to the ends of this imaginary world. I comply, not because she has directly asked me to, or because I feel that I am required to…but because a pent-up passion for her gnaws at my insides. I crave the sensation of her flesh, it is my only wish to bring her inhumane amounts of pleasure mingled in with emotion, but most of all do I yearn for her love and adoration, in exchange for every ounce of my own.

Her nails sink deep into the living, heated flesh of my back as my thigh comes up to push against her core, my incoherent thoughts _needing_ to hear her respond to my actions. She delivers; visibly clenching her teeth together and crying that three-syllabic word once again to make me shudder—as if the melodious sound of her voice literally rose to encompass my naked body in the most delicious of ways.

My lower lip finds itself trapped between the maws of my teeth, muscles tighten as I feel my pulse rise to a near-inhuman level. Imagination alone has created this world of bliss and pure pleasure, and yet my mind runs full-throttle with her frail body beneath me. My hand slips lower—mind incapable of resisting the temptation to feel her flesh any longer—to graze her folds, and I cannot retain the gasp of excitement that escapes my parted lips as I come to terms with just how wet my best friend has become. She arches upwards into my hand, already craving what scarce touch I have given her; the simple realization that I can drive her to the brink of coherency with an action so simple makes me glad. Even if, technically, I am the one making her this way, the situation satisfies me.

She grasps my shoulders and pulls me downwards, shifting her head to the side in the process so that I have easy access to her slender neck. I want her so much that I don't stop to consider the fact that I hadn't even remotely been thinking about that action being done, even though it had occurred; my lips fasten themselves to the soft texture of her flesh, and I nip and suckle as she mewls encouraging pants and broken sentences. "Don't ever…stop the—Christ with your tongue and…mmm _so good_…"

"Good?" I pull away and ask the question innocently; teasing only because I have already sunk metaphorical fangs deep into my prey and am certain she cannot escape at this point. "Are you sure, babe?"

She murmurs an amusing profanity and squirms beneath me, searching for release.

I'm not one to taunt; I'm not one to take advantage of a position of dominance when reality swims in the air around me. Though with the soothing confines of my hazed imagination surrounding us, I'm free to step passed any boundaries I have intentionally placed upon myself. Consequences aren't important, here. All that matters right now is that I take in as much of the glorious woman writhing beneath me as I possibly can—the rest is irrelevant. With this in mind my hands begin once again to wander, and I find myself inebriated with the unbelievably sexy way my name tumbles from her red, swollen lips.

I press my body into hers, drunk with desire and incapable of holding back the urges that scream at me from within the confines of my mind. We kiss, then; my tongue entering her mouth and claiming the territory as my own. The beauty beneath me moans and squirms for dominance beneath the crushing weight of my body, but I do not allow her the slightest opportunity to take this away from me.

For but a moment, I allow this intoxicated haze to consume me.

For _but a moment_, my mind ceases to function and I forget everything but her.

For but a moment…I am free.

"Angela!" Temperance screams my name as I bury two dextrous digits deep within her feminine sheath. She grabs the dark hair situated at the nape of my neck and thrusts my head back; the feeling of her velvet interior pulsing around my fingers enough to make me gasp. "Oh my God, Ange…pl-please don't stop. Never stop."

The hand fisted in my hair thrusts my head down, our lips crashing together in another searing kiss. My head swims, my body aches for her touch, and yet my digits do not cease their ravaging of her glorious sex. I am amazed by the texture of her sheath—she is like none other I have ever entered. I would trade her for nothing in the world.

"You taste like champagne," the anthropologist giggles against my lips, and is effectively shushed when I slip an additional finger inside of her. She can only gasp the barely audible word: "Delicious."

Her skin feels alive against mine, heat radiating from her every pore to seep into my own flesh—entering my body and wrapping sensuously around each of my internal organs. Her hands are everywhere_._ She takes possession of my entire body without even uttering a word; I can tell with the way her nails dig painfully into the heated tissue of my back that she has claimed me as her own. And I willingly give myself to her, as long as she gives me the key to her heart in return._ I have never been so alive;_ my heart slams upon my sternum and I smile against her open lips. _I have never felt so real…_

"Come for me, Bren." A grin finds its way upon my features when I lean back to scrutinize her visage. Her eyes are closed, squeezing shut at irregular intervals when I curl my fingers upwards into her walls. Lips parted and swollen red, Temperance Brennan is the most beautiful woman I have ever been with. I have played this scenario through my mind an innumerable amount of times; why does the idealism seem so different, now? Why is my heart pumping faster than it ever has?

I feel tight velvet walls clench together against my fingers, and I realize that Temperance has reached orgasm before I have even had time to tease her into submission. I cease the movements of my fingers; I hold them inside of her for a few moments longer—desperate to prolong this climax, surmounted so rapidly that I had not the time to rearrange my thoughts appropriately. She moans beneath me, lip curling upwards in the most delicious of manners to portray the pinnacle of her climax.

My free hand finds its way upon her breast, fingers circling the nipple to further rouse her feminine instincts. She bites her lip in attempt to calm herself down; to diminish these delicious sensations I intentionally wreak upon her. My movements diminish in raging fervour, my fingers calm their aggressive roaming, and my lips once again meet the soft flesh of her own. The palms of my hands lightly explore the creamy texture of her naked skin, heart still pulsing with excited purpose within the cage of my ribs. _The glory that is Temperance Brennan now belongs to me_, I think to myself, kissing lower to symbolically soothe the angry purple marks left by the trail of my fingernails in the valley between her breasts. _I have claimed her, and she is mine forever._

I feel her chest rise and descend in the most irregular of manners against the passion of my lips, breathing rapid and inconsistent. My eyes rise to meet her own, and I am shocked to find glistening water streaming down the perfect skin that covers her cheeks.

"Baby…" my voice rises in sympathetic worry. "Temperance…what's wrong?"

She presses a hand to my chest, pushing me away. I do not fight her strength—even though I am well aware of the fact that the anthropologist could easily be overpowered. As soon as I am sufficiently distanced from her, Temperance removes her hand. The metaphorical magnet that is my heart is savagely ripped from my chest cavity the moment her flesh leaves mine; with the still-beating organ in her hand, my best friend turns over to face the opposite direction, racking sobs tearing their way through her throat.

"Temp…urance I…"

My words begin to slur; my thoughts begin to mesh together to create swirls of incoherency. Her shoulders rise and fall proportionally to the saddening cries of distress that emerge from her lips, and I so desperately wish that there was something I can do to help. The perfect curve of her naked back is all I am permitted to ogle as the anthropologist—and smartest living woman I know on this entire Earth—curls her figure into a foetal position, hiding her nudity at the exception of her bottom. I press my open hand to her ribs, allowing my fingers to delve down and lightly brush the underside of her breast, but she cringes away from me.

"_You're not real_…" She had spoken the words, I was certain of it. I had seen the fleshy tissue of her warm lips move in perfect synchronization with the utterances escaping. And yet, the echo of her words resonated within the confines of my mind—as if no one else present in the room could hear them except for me; as if Temperance had planted the eerie phrase directly into my thoughts so that it resounded as a notion of my own: _I am not real…_

She is still crying profusely as I pulled my hand back away from her, only then catching a glimpse of swirling confusion. My head begins to swim, my thoughts begin to churn, and my mind rids itself of purpose. The room surrounding us is at an angle, now, the walls suddenly not vertical anymore. A taste of ash plagues the insides of my mouth, and before I get the chance to turn to Temperance, asking her for help, the contents of my stomach are violently spewed in the opposite direction; bile and remnants of diner mingling together to create a disgusting mixture of illness.

And in my haze of disoriented, sick feeling, I can still hear the sobs that tear their way from Temperance's lips: the background resonance to my twisted feeling of loneliness as my mind drifts off into a black abyss.

**TBC.**

**A/N:** So I'm actually in class right now, finishing up my lesbian-pornographic narration and posting it to the internet. Ahh the glory of teachers who _just don't give a shit_.


	3. Lucidity

Disclaimer: I do not own the characters. No infringement intended.  
Spoilers/Warnings: Everything is fair game.  
A/N: I doubt I'll be posting the next chapter to this any time soon, what with school and the new girlfriend *wink* and new ideas for different fandoms I've come up with lately. Hope you guys understand! 3

The blaring ring of a cell phone sliced through the eerie silence that had settled itself in the air around the two women, over the course of the past few hours. Temperance was the first to wake, inhaling through her nostrils and rubbing her face with both hands at once to try and shake off the feeling of discomfort. She reached over and grabbed her bag, shuffling sleepily through it and grabbing hold of her portable communication device; it read upon the unblemished screen the numerical values: 7:43AM. Bleary and irritable, Temperance flipping it open and pressed the appliance to her ear.

"Hullo..?" The anthropologist sounded like a frog in labour, but didn't care. There was a gnawing ache in each and every one of her limbs, a strange soreness that could not be explained in the haze of her wake.

"Bones!" A masculine voice boomed against her eardrum in the most unpleasant of ways, and Temperance pulled the phone away from her ear to diminish the racing of sound waves to penetrating her skull. "Rise and shine, buttercup; we have a _ca-a-a-ase_!"

"Booth?" Her groggy voice irritated even herself as she heard it crawl out from between her lips and into the speaker piece of the apparatus. For some reason, her partner seemed particularly happy to inform her of a new case he'd acquired, but simply by flexing her bicep did Temperance come to terms with just how battered her body was. "I'm not, uhh…this hasn't been the best night's sleep for me, Booth. Can I call you later?"

He seemed disappointed…and suspicious. "The Bones I know would come to work even if her two legs were broken and she were missing a lung."

Temperance hung up, not so keen on explaining the various reasons that statement was irrational and seriously implausible. She threw her phone on the floor beside her, not bothering to neatly place it back into her bag so that it be at the exact same spot next time she'd search for it. The scientist let out an irked sigh and allowed her body to slump backwards into a horizontal position, only realizing that it wasn't the best of ideas when the back of her head smashed painfully against the hardwood of a living room floor.

Temperance let a pained groan escape her throat and sat up, rubbing the back of her head in a consistent manner to dissipate the newfound soreness. In the process, the anthropologist distinctly felt the inside of her bicep brush up against her naked breast, and, in shock, gazed down at herself to find that garments had apparently been thrown to the bottom of her priorities. _Oh…sweet Jesus._

"Uuuggrh…"

The generally calm, collected woman gasped and jumped upon hearing a guttural, feminine groan emerge from beside her. She glanced over, breathless to find Angela Montenegro—trusted employee and best friend—naked, eyes open, and limbs strewn every which way to create a beautiful painting of confusion and perhaps a hint of distress. Without cerebral authority, Temperance's pupils fixed themselves upon the dark, tempting nipples that accentuated each of her best friend's firm, creamy breasts. Her eyes wandered downwards to a perfect stomach, ripe hips, and enticing triangle of black curls that seemed to beckon to her; to call to the animal leashed within with that soothing tone of detachment.

Brennan's first instinct was to snatch the nearest object and hide her nudity with it; so she grabbed the jacket strewn across the floor and placed it over her chest to drape down and cover her closed thighs; legs bent at the knee—effectively preventing anyone from a frontal perspective to see anything she didn't want them to. Angela was still groaning and waking from slumber when Temperance began to bite the insides of her cheeks in rising anxiety, waiting for her best friend to tell her what exactly had occurred the previous night.

"Bren…?" Angela blinked a few times, trying to make sense of her surroundings. "What are…when did we—"

"I don't know."

"Oh my _God_!" Angela had to pause and catch her breath upon realizing the way she'd chosen to clothe herself to go to bed the night before. She brought her knees up to rest against her chest and brought her feet together as to prevent anything inappropriate to be shown unwillingly. "Do you not have any clothes on, either, Bren? Lord, what did…how am I—like, _we_…how did you even get to be…"

"I _don't know_, Ange."

Temperance's voice rose in irritation as her best friend trailed off in a nervous, incoherent stutters. Given, Angela likely wasn't the person to blame this entire mess of a situation on, but the anthropologist had no clue what was going on; facts weren't here to help her in the comprehension of such a context, and the only living being in sight was the naked figure of her employee—brows furrowed and lips pursed quizzically.

"How do you feel?" For the first time since waking, Angela posed a question that Temperance could answer.

"Sore." She answered earnestly, a bit uncomfortable with being in such a position that depicted physical vulnerability; even to this woman whom she deeply cared for. "I have no clue what happened, but whatever it was, wasn't a typical walk in the park."

The artist smiled a small smile at her friend's bitter attempt to improve the situation with humour. Temperance had never been the best when it came to a sense of humour, but the simple knowledge that she was trying made Angela grin. She sobered up faster than the feeling of blissful folly had occurred, however, and eyed Brennan with a serious allure; "Do you remember, uhh…anything at all? From last night?"

"No." Temperance pulled the jacket up closer to her neck and shifted her weight uncomfortably, trying to remember the denouement of events. "I remember drinking a bit of champagne, we talked and laughed…your intake of alcoholic substances increased dramatically over the course of the evening. You fell. I sat down beside you after checking your pulse…I think I fell asleep. And that's the last thing I remember."

"Where does the loss of clothes come in?"

"_I—_"

"Don't know," Angela finished the sentence for an increasingly frustrated anthropologist. "Fair enough, because neither do I."

_ Both women were lying._

At least, in theory, they were both hiding the truth from each other. Neither Temperance nor Angela would ever divulge the rawness of their true emotions—each for different reasons, of course—in any way, shape or form. What had occurred had not been intentional, nor even perhaps initiated, but it had happened. _They merely weren't aware._

They sat there for many moments, Temperance counting the seconds as they leisurely dripped away, and Angela digging the nails of her right hand into the palm of her left; she found that if pain was the focal direction of her thoughts, the ideology of pleasure would not have the opportunity to seep into her system. The term "awkward silence" had never been one which Temperance Brennan was otherwise familiar with; but as she sat a few feet away from the naked friend she proudly claimed her best, fingers grasping the hem of a leather jacket to hide the extent of her own nudity, the concept became known to her.

"Could you, uhh…pass me my pants?" Temperance was the first to break the heavy silence, gesturing towards the heap of clothing across the room that vaguely resembled my lower garments. "Please?"

She shifted uncomfortably, bringing her legs closer together. "Seriously, Bren?"

The anthropologist eyed her friend quizzically. "What's wrong?"

"I'm naked!" Angela practically shrieked the words. "That's what's wrong. You have my jacket to cover up your lady bits; I have my legs. If I get up, I have nothing. _You_ get up and grab your pants."

"Fine." Temperance stood, clutching the jacket to her front. "I will."

The scientist didn't want to admit the fact that she felt the slightest bit insulted by the way that her best friend seemed impatient and a bit displeased at the situation they were currently in. She wasn't alone in the matter, but Brennan didn't want to throw it in the artist's face, either. It was strange that even though they both belonged to the same gender, neither of the women wished to simply stand and show the bluntness of their naked bodies; neither of the women wished to divulge the extent of their vulnerability towards the other. Because in the end, that's what it all came down to. Naked, raw exposure.

Angela's heart was pounding with what some would call anticipation mingled in with anxiety; the strangest of concoctions ever to swirl within her core. What had happened the night before was still fresh in her mind, she could still feel the fleshy tips of Temperance's fingers running ever-so-smoothly over her skin. The bits and pieces of the past evening were shattered, fragmented throughout her mind in distinct patterns of an incoherent slush. Reality and ideology clashed with her memories, and it was difficult for her to distinguish between the two.

"Bren?" Angela's voice softened, and she looked up at her best friend with curiosity twinkling within her irises.

The anthropologist recognized this soft, apologetic tone and softened her own voice to a minimalistic hum, interested in this sudden change of atmosphere. "Hmm?"

"Do you really not remember anything from last night?"

Angela's voice cracked in the middle of her sentence, making Temperance's heart leap within her rib cage. The artist had murmured in a voice that was quite similar to this throughout her interesting dream, and the preconscious memory of it had an urge begging to be unleashed plead within her core. She cleared her throat. "No, Ange. I don't."

**TBC**


End file.
